


lemonade

by basementmixtape



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex (not explicit), Patricia Blum/Stanley Uris - Freeform, Short, Songfic, Stan Uris Needs a Hug, Stan Uris: Bisexual Disaster, Stozier, Underage Drinking, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basementmixtape/pseuds/basementmixtape
Summary: “The next time he kisses meI want him to taste red ruby lipsAnd the love we madeAnd the lemonade“-Lemonade, Nicole DollangangerStan Uris, bisexual disaster, cheats on his girlfriend with Richie Tozier of all people.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	1. drinking lemonade (and playing with my hair)

**Author's Note:**

> obviously don’t cheat on your significant other, i don’t condone cheating, this was just a bit of fun. enjoy!

They were drunk, the blue light of a T.V. screen flickering over glassy eyes and smeared makeup, more girls among them now, high school seniors with girlfriends and boyfriends and whole lives unfolding in front of them. The future was an idea that felt thick, heavy on his tongue and in his mind, thrumming through his veins like slow-acting poison. He knew what he was destined for, numbers ticking higher, a wife, a white picket fence, two and a half kids, totally nuclear. The idea of it made his head spin, ending up just like his father, in their hollow house. His parents didn't speak, they sat in stiff silence, his mother with her perfect lipstick, her long hair, streaked with grey now, she had been beautiful once, but Stan hadn't been around to see it. When they spoke, they were screaming. He wished they would get a divorce, just for it to be over, so he wouldn't have to hear his perfect family rip each other apart every time his bedroom door clicked shut. 

His girlfriend was resting her head on his shoulder, her hand in his. She was very drunk, giggling against his shirt, her neat black hair tickling his nose, her dark green eyes glassy and strange behind thin round specs, in brown mascara and red lipstick. She was someone his parents would like, Patricia Blum, Patty, a nice jewish girl that lived one town over. She always wore neat sweaters and long skirts, she had a rare smile like him, serious, and turned pink when he raised his eyebrows, or curled his lips. They had been together for seven months, she was a good girlfriend, sleeping over every few weeks, he liked watching her put her makeup on in the morning, the careful touches, steady hands, sharp lines of lipstick, gentle circles of blusher. She was beautiful. She was perfect.

She wasn't enough.

"What is it, Stanley?" She said, her hands, always cold, were gripping his arm. She traced a thumb over his bottom lip. "You're staring." She was a dark, ruddy crimson, blushing because of him. She was so damn pretty.

"Just looking at you." He whispered, and she actually smiled, the tequila on her breath making her easy and bright. She pulled him into a quick kiss, eyes going soft when she pulled away.

"You're wearing my lipstick, honey." He let her wipe off the smudges of pink away, kissing the tip of her finger, just to make her turn red. "Want to go home?" He shook his head, gesturing to the movie no one was watching, Halloween.

"It's not over yet." She tucked her head back into his collarbone, her icy skin making him feel even colder. Neither of them were warm. He looked away from her, from the long nails on her fingertips, painted robins egg blue, from the soft mess of vanilla, strawberry scented curls. He met Richie's eyes, his thick, coke-bottle glasses reflecting the television glow, his lips set in a frown. The expression didn't look right on him, Richie was always bright, an easy grin and hard black eyes, in ugly, mismatched shirts, with dirty hands and crooked teeth. He was chaos, he was beautiful. Stan didn't look away, staring at Richie, soothing a hand through Patty's hair. Her green eyes slid shut, her breath slipping deeper, drifting into drunken dreams so easily it almost felt foreign. She had woken up to him screaming and shaking in bed on nights he actually managed to sleep, she hadn't asked yet, but it was only a matter of time, one last screaming, sobbing nightmare and all of it would crumble. He slid the glasses off the end of her nose, kissing the space between her eyebrows, watching the tension bleed out of her. He felt so guilty he could hardly breathe.

He slowly shifted her until she was laying on the couch instead of him, putting the glasses on the table beside her, pressing another tender kiss into her hair, breathing her in. Vanilla, and strawberry shampoo. His chest ached, his heart wrung out by his own hands.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, so quiet it was almost soundless. She didn't stir.

He wandered into the kitchen, getting himself another disgusting shot, then another, and another, until he was dreamy and bright, floating. He downed a glass of water, chasing the fire as if he could ever put it out, as if he wasn't ashes, as if he had anything but emptiness inside of him. He felt horrible, greedy and twisted. What kind of person wanted both? What kind of person wanted a perfect girlfriend, wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to watch her curl her hair and press her hands against his, and still wanted to fuck their best friend? He could imagine it with Richie too, holding his hand, laughing into his skin, trading kisses and insults in equal parts. It wasn't just about sex. It would never just be about sex.

He wanted, desperately and completely, desire eating him alive. Drunken tears blurring his vision, sipping lukewarm water, staring at his reflection in the black window. There was a whole world out there, but with the kitchen lights on, it was like all of it had been swallowed whole, this room, this house, was all there was, the entire world vanishing when the windows turned to mirrors at night. He didn't like how easily he crumbled, how easily he gave into his parents wants, letting them mold him into the perfect son, the picture perfect family. He didn't like what he was doing to Patricia, he felt like every time he touched her he was lying, swallowing her sweet little noises, feeling her icy hands and her warm body under his, her hands in his hair. I love you. He hadn't been able to say it back, he had just kissed her again, and curled his fingers, and hoped she would forget the fear that ran down his spine like ice water.

"You alright, Stan?" The kitchen door opening, closing, Richie's reflection in the window behind him. He wanted to punch himself in the throat. He was so beautiful, so ridiculous, off balance, his face all lopsided, his smirking mouth, his big eyes, one prescription stronger, glasses magnifying that eye more, his freckles, more on his left cheek than his right. He wasn't anything Stan's parents would want, vulgar, his mouth even filthier than the talking shoes on his feet, taped together every time they fell apart. He was a disaster, but Stan was a disaster too. He didn't know why that felt important, but it did. They were the same. On a surface level, Patricia was the perfect match for him, all strange, incomprehensible jokes, she liked to collect flowers and press them between the pages of books. They would wander together, the silence comfortable between them, him with his sketchbook and his handbook and his binoculars, looking for birds, her gathering wildflowers. She braided them into his hair and kissed his sunburnt cheeks until they were breathless from laughing, but none of it held a candle to Richie. His cruel jokes, his loud footsteps scaring the birds from their trees, his broad hands and his laughing eyes and his curling, ink black hair. Stan didn't know when he had fallen in love with him, it had snuck up on him, stabbed him in the lungs and left the knife in his back. All he could do was choke on his own blood. He hated himself for it. "Stanley?"

"I'm fine, Rich." He looked at his shaking hands, the glass of clear water, his stinging, blurred eyes. He heard the kitchen door close.

When he looked up, Richie was gone.

-

"Stan, you have to talk to me." He had been ignoring her since the day before, when he'd left her house angry, she had been innocent enough, her little blossom lips parting, coated red and pretty. " _You could talk about the nightmares, if you want_." He had gotten defensive, angry. It wasn't their first fight, but it was the first that had followed them to school. She was following him down the hallway, her hands wringing together, nails painted yellow now, going with the flowers embroidered on her blue dress. She was perfect, delicate brown hair, curled toward her face at the bottom, dark green eyes, her gold rimmed glasses. She was so sweet, so gentle with him. He hated her for it, he hated himself for hating her.

"I really don't." He said, voice a stiff monotone. He had him cornered, so emotional, biting her bottom lip, eyes shining like she was trying not to cry. She grabbed his hand, hers so small in his, delicate and icy, her long nails pressing into the back of his hand, so clearly the hand of a girl, he hated the fact he didn't care. He hated the fact that if it was Richie, his hand broad and dry and warm, he would've felt just as content. "I don't have to do anything for you, Pat." He wrenched his hand out of her grip, ignoring the tears that finally overflowed, one sliding, a streak of black mascara on her cheek. Not perfect, not anymore. He had done that, he had ruined the picture of perfection his girlfriend maintained to a fault. Guilt shot through him.

"Baby, please." She whimpered, and he pulled her close, sliding her glasses into her hair, holding her against his chest, her tiny body, the knit sweater he had given her, lemon coloured with blue buttons, her long dress, her skinny waist. He could probably wrap one hand all the way around her, she ate like a bird. "Please don't leave me, Stan, I can't lose you too." He nodded, hiding them away in a darker corner, ignoring his friends and their curious glances, pulling away to look at her, guilt and regret churning inside of him.

"I'm not going anywhere." She was a mess, her pale face streaked with black makeup, her lipstick bitten away, shadows under her eyes. She really did love him. It felt like he'd been punched in the throat. "I promise, I'm not."

"I love you," She shook with the force of her sobs. "I love you so much, Stanley." He couldn't force himself to tell the truth, to hurt her even more, the pain coiling inside of him like a tiny, venomous thing, a creature ready to rip and bite and tear. He pressed his lips into her hair, and he lied.

"I love you too." Richie was on the opposite side of the hallway, watching him with that frown, his black eyes hard and unfamiliar. He had always been able to see right through him.

"I can't lose you, I won't ask again, baby, I promise I won't be a bitch again." He looked down at her, her watery green eyes. He kissed her, grabbed her hand.

"You can't go to class like this, I'll drive you home." He met Richie's eyes again, walking toward him, pulling Patricia beside him. They hadn't ever spoken, he realized very suddenly. Not properly. He'd introduced them, but ever since, Richie had avoided her like the plague, and she had stayed stuck to his side, following him with cold hands and warm eyes. "'Chee, can you tell everyone I'm not going to be here today?" Richie hardly looked at her, staring at him with that strange, serious expression.

"What happened? Are you being a bitch to Patty-Cakes, Staniel?" She raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but adapted all the same, immediately lying. It seemed natural, and he probably would've believed her if he didn't know what Stan looked like when he was angry.

"Nothing happened, I'm just having a rough day, Stanley didn't do anything. He's always very sweet." She ran a hand over his shoulder. "He would never do anything to hurt me, right, baby?"

"Yeah," He said, his throat feeling heavy and thick. "Thanks, Rich. See you tomorrow." She stuck herself to his side, and let him fuck her when they got to her empty house, kissing him so soundly.

" _You love me, you love me, you love me..."_

-

They were fighting again, this time they didn't have school to force them back together, the weekend rolled out in front of them, long and short at the same time. She had sensed his anger, asked, and let him scream at her. He had only left when she flinched away from his hands, disgust rolling through him, self-hatred was a feeling so familiar by now it was practically his constant state. She thought he was going to hit her, and if he hadn't stopped himself, he probably would have.

He didn't know how or why he had ended up here, standing in front of Richie's empty house, his bike beside him, the kickstand down because he wasn't a fucking degenerate. The air was thin and hot, a fragile summer staining the breeze, the new air shuddering and shaking, the warmth ready to shatter with a harsh breath. He rang the doorbell, standing numbly on the front porch, dark and empty. Richie opened the door, in a t-shirt and boxers, smelling like pot and boxed wine.

"Stan? What the fuck are you doing here? It's past midnight." He shook his head, he knew he must look like a mess, he had thrown on his clothes so hastily, his hair still disheveled from her hands, lips red from her mouth, shirt untucked. He didn't have his sweater. He had left it there, on her bedroom floor.

"Me and Patricia- she was so angry, and I was angry, and I tried to touch her, and she just- she flinched like she thought I was going to hit her. She thought I was going to hit her, and she just would've let me-" He stopped himself. "We fight. We fight all the time, but this is- fuck-" Richie dragged him inside by his wrist.

"God, you're a mess. You want coffee?" He nodded, watching him put on a pot, hands shaking. "Why were you fighting?"

"I don't even remember." He laughed, dry and humourless and cold. "It doesn't matter, we always get mean."

"That sounds unhealthy as fuck, Stan." He rubbed at the lipstick on his mouth, glaring at the tabletop, at the dusty cupboards and the magnets on the fridge.

"It isn't. I know it isn't, we've never been healthy, we just argue. She loves me, god knows why." He picked at his nails. "I don't love her, I don't think." Richie stilled. "I lie to her, I tell her I do, but I've never loved her, she's just- she's too perfect. Does that make sense? The perfect girlfriend, all quiet and pretty, same sense of humour, same habits, same seriousness and like, everything down to the goddamn birdwatching. It's like she was made in a lab or something, just for me. It's terrifying." He couldn't look at him. "She's too much like me, I could never love her."

"Jesus fuck, Stan. Break up with the poor girl." He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again.

"You haven't seen her when I've tried, it's like I'm ripping out her arteries or something, she just cries and cries and says the darkest things, she's told me before, that she's got no reason to live without me. She said I'm the love of her life. I love someone else, and she doesn't even know. I feel like a monster, Rich." A cup of coffee, strong and bitter and dark, was placed in front of him. "Thank you."

"You love someone else?" Richie was beside him, and Stan swore he could feel heat pouring off his skin, so different from her, his cruel tongue, his sharp edges, he was taller than Stan, with skinny limbs and broad shoulders and if he touched him the weight of the want under his skin would tear both of them apart.

"I think it's love. It feels like it's love." Stan still couldn't look at him, the blood pounding through his veins, dizzying and heavy and so warm. "I wish I could love her."

"But... who are you in love with, Stan?" Richie was hovering, his fingers drumming on the tabletop, sliding over the edge of his coffee mug, nails bitten to the quick. Her long nails, painted sunny yellow, flashed in his mind, the little rings on her fingers, her hands were always dry from soap, she washed them twice, every time she got them dirty, as terrified of bacteria and little life as he was.

"I..." He choked, the words too heavy inside of him. Richie's warm hand touched his, and he swore he saw red, blood pounding through his veins, head spinning, hands shaking. He didn't think, didn't breathe, he grabbed Richie's jaw with shaking, icy hands, and pressed their lips together. The hunger was all consuming, and when he felt his mouth on his, dry and warm and just as insistent against him, he lost control completely.

He was ridiculously tender, holding him more gently than he had ever held her, mouth working so slowly against his, agonizingly careful. They held each other, like if they weren't gripping tight enough to bruise they'd vanish, dissipating like smoke on a thin breeze. His touches were all consuming, burning through him, a destructive, chaotic force.

He forced himself to step away, and Richie followed him, like the devil.


	2. in the backyard full of dying flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lights on an empty stage, the fool wearing his face cracks another joke, cracks another smile, cracks a little at the edges and keeps crumbling.”
> 
> Richie Tozier, gay disaster, copes with the aftermath of a night with Stan Uris of all people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter will be in richie’s pov! sorry for the wait i didn’t want to post a continuation i wasn’t satisfied with :)

Richie stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered how he had become a stranger to himself quite so quickly. He had swollen lips from Stan's biting mouth, handprints on his hips like brands of iron and fire and maybe steel, tiny violet bruises bitten onto his throat, trembling fingertips, cheeks red with a steady, embarrassed flush of colour. He didn't do things like this. He didn't break people apart with the intention of patching them back together, he didn't kiss straight boys, he didn't fuck straight boys, he didn't do anything with straight boys. He was good at keeping secrets, and that was the first rule: find other boys who are good at keeping secrets. A whole underworld of closet-cases in their tiny town, he saw them at school sometimes, remembered how they tasted when they found a place inside of him, nameless and anxious and bloodless when they met his eyes.

Stan had kissed him last night.

Stan had done a lot more than kiss him last night.

Richie hadn't stopped him, when he tried to stop he pulled him close again, trying to drag even more out of him, trying to swallow every drop of weakness Stan would give him. He knew the second he felt his tongue in his mouth he was a mistake, all of this was a mistake, but he was greedy and selfish and hungry and it didn't matter. It still didn't. Richie was allowed to be a mistake, he was allowed to be a tired experiment Stan would jack off to when he married Patty in three years, a note of quiet shame and disappointment that would follow him for the rest of his life.

_"Who are you in love with, Stan?"_

It was none of his goddamn business who Stan was in love with. He would be there for him, he would help him through all of this, if Stan could even look at him anymore, if he wasn't disgusted by the sight of him, if they hadn't ruined everything for this, for one clumsy night together. Richie felt like a monster, like some poisoned, ugly thing meant to take and take and take and give nothing but sin back. His Momma had raised a terrible catholic, one made of sin and strangers harsh touches, made of lust and punchy, horrible laughter. Stan was good. Stan was still into all that religious shit his parents had raised him on, and that didn't make Richie sad but it made him something awfully close to it.

He brushed his teeth almost robotically, staring at himself, at the person he hated most in the world, at a selfish, greedy monster. He spat in the sink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and knew no one would ever want him again, knew this had ruined him forever, knew he would never be able to wash off the marks Stan's hands and mouth had left all over him, until the day he died his heart would be black and blue and there was nothing he could do about it. He went back into his bedroom, and the bed was empty, and he didn't know why he expected anything else, why he would ever even dream of expecting anything else. There was nothing to be done for it, they weren’t meant for each other, Stan was meant for girls like Patty, for wives and kids and white picket fences and nine-to-fives and a family dog and a house in the suburbs. He sat on the rumpled duvet, he curled up on his stained sheets and cried when he smelled lavender and mint on his pillow, his entire body aching with pathetic want. He craved love like an ache deep under his lungs, inside his chest in the place beside his heart.

Lights on an empty stage, the fool wearing his face cracks another joke, cracks another smile, cracks a little at the edges and keeps crumbling, the audience jeers, ghostly bodies and empty chairs with malevolent entities inside of them. He’s not meant to be in anyone’s heart. He’s meant to be here, alone under a spotlight made of misery, lying through his teeth and calling it comedy. The sad fool dancing for strangers, the card in the tarot deck that meant new beginnings doing nothing but marking his violent end. His black and blue heart was a whimpering shadow inside of his chest.

He told himself he never gave a fuck about love. He told himself he'd never give a fuck about it. He lit himself a cigarette with his shaking hands, forcing himself out of bed to find something to fix this, to find anything to fix this. There had to be a way to fix this.

He didn't find a solution, all he found was the bottom of a bottle.

-

Richie forced a bright smile when he saw his friends, slinging an arm over Beverly's shoulders, grinning wildly and leaning close.

"Hiya Molly Ringwald, got anything for me?" He puckered his lips and she shoved him off her, smiling and rolling her eyes.

"Nothing, sorry-"

"Sounds like what Eddie here's got in his pants so-"

"Beep beep, Richie." Eddie squawked from his other side, small and pink and furious already. "God, why do you have to be such an asshole all the time? Don’t you ever get tired of being absolutely fucking insufferable-"

"Not as tired as your mom was last night.”

"God, I fucking hate you sometimes, you know that?" Richie reached over and ruffled his hair, grinning when he swatted at his hands and ducked away, an emptiness inside his laughter only he seemed to hear.

"Sure you do, Eds." He looked up and his fake smile fell to nothing but a flat line. Patty Blum was walking toward him, red-lipped, tear stained, and furious, her tiny hands balled into fists at her sides, lines of black makeup down her pale cheeks. She stopped in front of him, fresh tears welling in her apple green eyes, trembling all over. Stiff with rage.

"Fuck you, Tozier." She flattened her hand, and slapped him across the face, then marched away, shaking with the force of her misery and anger. Richie stared after her, mouth hanging open dumbly, a hand drifting up to touch the burning mark she'd left on his cheek. Stan came around the corner next, stopping short when he saw Richie standing there, one side of his face red, all of their friends silent as ghosts around them.

"Sorry, I told her." Richie stared at him, dumbfounded.

" _Told her?_ " His voice cracked, but no one mocked him the way the usually would, they all just stared at him, at Stan, down the hall where Patty had vanished.

"Yeah." Stan looked like a mess, a beautiful mess, but still a mess, his caramel curls all rumpled and unwashed, shadows like bruises under his eyes, pale and bloodless with spots of embarrassed red high on his cheeks, his high collared shirt still didn't hide the mark Richie had sucked into his skin, his golden eyes peering up at him with an unfamiliar intensity. "We need to talk." He grabbed Richie's hand, pulling him down the hallway away from their curious friends, cornering him outside, the school bell ringing while Richie lit himself a cigarette, fixated on how beautiful he looked when his curls caught the dark-clouded daylight, when his eyelashes turned all golden, his skin washed with dim light, his features sharp and bright and impossibly pretty. He stared at Richie's smoke with a frowning mouth and his pretty honey coloured eyes narrowed, shining with what looked suspiciously close to tears.

Richie didn’t speak. Not yet, he hated silences like this one on most days, heavy and vacant and so fucking uncomfortable it was almost like a physical pressure, an unfamiliar and muted howl of emptiness and terrifying anxiety. He couldn’t stand quiet moments, but he forced himself to suffer through this one, waiting for Stan to speak. This was his breakup letter, in spoken word.

“I already told you how I feel about you.” He could barely breathe, staring at a spot on the concrete between his shoes, another appearing, tiny dark circles of cold grey, another and another and another. He sheltered his smoke with his hand while the sky opened up above them, glancing at Stan sharply, and motioning with his head for him to follow. “I tried to tell you. At least. I’m not like you are, I can’t just _say things_ , it’s hard for me to even say all this to you right now.” The small drops of rain were getting bigger by the second, the circles on the concrete growing to dimes of darkness. There was a sheltered doorway on the side of the school that they both ducked into, the light rain beating out of the clouds into a torrential downpour. They were forced close like this, Richie still smoking his cigarette, glasses clouded with raindrops and shared breaths. Stan looked pink and pretty, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a few beats.

“You don’t have to be nice, Stan.” He finally said, trying to keep the sadness off his face, a stiff smile, eyebrows raised over dead eyes. “I understand it was a one-time thing, you’ll explain it all with Patty and it’ll all work out how it’s supposed to, I know I’m not meant for you. It was all just,” He couldn’t keep his voice from getting all ugly and twisted. “A mistake. I know you didn’t mean it, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I don’t _want_ some one-time thing, Richie.” Stan said, alarmingly defensive, eyebrows furrowed over his soft eyes. Richie smiled again, forcing down an uncomfortable laugh.

“We can do it again, you just can’t tell her next time, alright? I’ll teach you about this shit and that’s the first rule, you have to keep it a secret, that’s what the other guys had to learn too. I’m good with arrangements like that Stan, if that’s what you want,” He smiled like he wasn’t grinding his own blackened heart to dust, reaching with a careful hand and brushing Stan’s rain-damp curls off his face. “We can do that, you can keep her and we can keep this quiet-”

“Richie, I don’t want to keep her.” Stan looked sad, reaching up and closing a hand around Richie’s wrist, slipping his fingers over his skin points of fiery contact, points to pick him apart, points to stitch him back together, intwining their fingers, palm to palm, looking up at him with that same alien intensity he’d had all day. “I already told you. She’s not the one I’m in love with.”

He stared down at him, mute, rendered speechless for the first time in a long time, head spinning, heart jack-rabbit quick inside his chest. He wanted to pinch himself, because this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t be real, it was too dangerous, too fast, too much all at once. Maybe this had been building for a while, maybe he was just too blind to see it, maybe he was really going to have this.

Lights on a stage, a theatre of ghostly and jeering faces, a fool wearing Richie’s face falls apart at the seams and crumbles like a statue made of dust. The crowd bursts into wild applause when his head rolls off and perches, wearing a cracked smile, on the edge of the stage. His heart is black and blue, a chunk of meat inside his chest abused and bitten and squeezed with harsh hands but Stan holds it like it’s something beautiful, like it’s not repulsive and dirty and black with sin. There isn’t a clean part of him, but when Stan looks at him he feels purged and glowing with holy light. The Fool in the tarot deck might wear his face, but so does the Lover, and right now he is allowed to decide between them. Choose a card. Choose a card and weep.

“What?” He finally managed, kicking himself when it came out ragged and ugly, strangely desperate. He sounded raw. His heart, the loathsome chunk of rotting flesh, climbing inside of his throat.

“Richie, I’m in love with you.” Stan finally said, so softly it was practically a whisper, his golden eyes insistent and warm. “I broke up with Patty.”

He dropped his cigarette, grabbed Stan’s jaw, and pressed their lips together, kissing him like he was trying to find a home inside of him, like he was trying to find a place to live between the canyons of his ribs, the curve of his spine, the heart inside his chest, glowing and vibrant and brilliant in its warmth. He kissed him like he was running back to something instead of towards it, like he was already meant to be there. Stan grabbed him and pulled him close and looked up at him with those bright golden eyes, let him kiss the violet shadows underneath them.

“I love you too.” Richie whispered.

Stan pushed them both into the rain, looking up at the crackling sky with an awestruck, brilliant cast to his face, to his entire body, letting the water soak him through.

He pulled Richie into another kiss, and laughed, like an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have alternate versions and deleted scenes i could share if any of you are interested in reading that kind of thing. please let me know ! 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed <3


	3. bonus: DELETED SCENE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a deleted/alternate scene, the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you ask then you shall receive! i’ll post more of them later on but here’s one today. set immediately after the first chapter, stan’s pov.

They exchanged gentle touches like acid washes, staining skin and seeping to hollow bones. Stan had always dreamed of being able to fly, he thought that was what drew him to the birds in the first place, the idea of something being free like that, able to soar at will. It was intoxicating. Richie had never been like him, he wasn't fragile in the same way, he wasn't hollow boned, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. He felt heavy and warm all around him, a second sun buried under his skin, hot as fire, a chemical burn.

Stan was sitting upright in the thin edge-of-summer-sunlight, watching his eyelashes twitch when his dreams made his eyes flick in every direction. His hair was a mess of tangled curls, black as ink against his pale skin, his bare shoulders caught in the sunlight, the sheets gathered at his hips. They were both naked, both bitten and blue and beautiful in Richie's bedroom. Stan liked how he looked in the morning, more freckles on his left cheek than his right, his bitten mouth, his eyebrows soft and relaxed. He ran a fingertip over Richie's collarbone, trailing down his arm, his chest, the hollow of his throat, his jaw, the curve of his nose, his eyebrows, his curly eyelashes. He watched when Richie blinked sleepily, coming alive in the summer sunlight, his black eyes clouded with sleepy confusion. He focused on Stan, and his tense expression softened, relaxing a little.

"Morning," His voice was low, gravelly with sleep, it shot through him, all consuming the way his kisses were. "So, I didn't dream this?" He reached with a warm hand, running his thumb over a mark he'd left on Stan's chest, dark purple, the shape of his mouth and his teeth.

"Not unless we both dreamed it." Stan laid back against Richie's pillows, tracing aimless patterns on his bare chest, hooking his chin over his shoulder, relaxing against his flame-hot skin, practically melting into him. "Though, I've had dreams like this before."

"You dream about me, Stanny?" He shoved at him halfheartedly, pressing his mouth into his shoulder, unable to stifle a smile.

"You know I do, I told you as much last night. You didn't say much. Feeling shy, Trashmouth?" Richie just smiled sleepily at him, pressing a lazy kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I did dream about you, do, whatever. I know it was your big confession or whatever last night, with the tears and the drama and all, and I didn't want to ruin it by opening my mouth. I remember something though, that you're in love with me, did I get that right?" Stan hated the huge, crooked smile that split his mouth, but he loved it too, he felt content here, in a boy's bed, safe and comfortable and warm. He knew that was disgusting, but at that moment, he didn't care.

"Unfortunately, you're right. I love you." He let the words sink into him properly, he absorbed exactly what he had done, he had let Richie fuck him, he had whimpered and shouted his name and given himself no easy way to run from this, all while Patty waited for him in her perfect bedroom, completely unaware. He felt his warm little bubble pop, tension flooding into him again.

"Hey, don't look so serious. I love you too, alright? I always have, I couldn't stand seeing you with her, with Patty or whatever her name is, every time she would try to claim you it just felt like scraping nails on a chalkboard or something. Obnoxious and wrong, you know?"

"I don't know, to be honest." Stan said stiffly, looking at Richie, trying to retain his dignity even though he was stark naked under the covers. He could barely focus when he noticed the dark hickey on the side of Richie's pale neck, one he had put there. "You know her name, don't pretend you don't. I really shouldn't be here, I should be with her, I should be pretending again, it's the right thing to do, she's not that bad, really. Sure, she's not perfect, but she's got most of it-"

"How can you even stand being with someone who's such a girl?" Richie was propped up on his elbow, studying him while he lit himself a cigarette, eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes all squinty and strange without his glasses.

"What are you talking about?" Richie scoffed, taking a long drag off his smoke, breathing a harsh breath, and every time Stan breathed in all he could think about was the fact he was breathing air that had been inside of his lungs.

"Well, you're gay, right? She's such a girl, all those skirts and curlers and all that makeup, god, she's like a Barbie doll-" Stan couldn't process that, he couldn't understand Richie, understand his disgust, his open revulsion, him with his bitten nails and black curls and his wide smile and his cigarette smell. Richie was gay. Richie didn't like girls at all.

"I'm not-" Stan swallowed, fighting back a sudden onslaught of pathetic tears. "I'm not gay. I don't know what I am." Richie squinted at him supportively, and Stan tried to ignore his nakedness, ignore the way the blanket was gathered between his legs, but it was nearly impossible. "I did like her at first, genuinely, I don't like boys or girls, I like boys and girls, both at once."

"I don't." Richie blew a harsh breath of smoke. "I only like boys, currently, I only like you." He leaned close and pressed a kiss to Stan's mouth. He found himself relaxing into the kiss, melting against him, tensing when he registered what he was doing, gently pulling away, anxiety blooming in his stomach like a poisonous weed.

“I like you too.” He shoved at his shoulder a little. “Go on, you’ve got morning breath, scrub that Trashmouth of yours for me.” Richie laughed, pulling on a pair of boxers and leaning down to kiss him one last time.

“Alright, I’ll be right back.” He smiled, his freckled shoulders still catching in the sunlight, his dark eyes greenish under its warm glow. Stan has always liked green eyes, his were hardly green at all though, echoes of the colour shrouded in black. “I’ll be back in a minute, Stanny.”

He shut the bathroom door behind him, and Stan disappeared like he was made of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! i should have more out soon :)

**Author's Note:**

> if u want a part two i can write one but you have to let me know because if no one wants it im not writing it lmao


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